


Fastidious

by LaurelSilver



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fastidious; very attentive to and concerned about accuracy and detail</p><p>Emil always has had an eye for pretty details. But small, pretty things don’t earn a living. They barely cover rent, never mind food and clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fastidious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Allen (Essie/ravagermagic)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Allen+%28Essie%2Fravagermagic%29), [Spain's ass (icey icey baby/castielmyangel)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Spain%27s+ass+%28icey+icey+baby%2Fcastielmyangel%29).



> Note; takes place in a fantastical pseudo-British town.
> 
> 'Explicit' refers to only one paragraph. So sorry to disappoint.

**Fastidious;** very attentive to and concerned about accuracy and detail

* * *

 

Emil always has had an eye for pretty details. Flowers in the cracks of concrete. The red and white headlights making roads of rubies and diamonds in the night. Soft pink rays of sunrise broken behind a skyline. Dimples and crow’s feet and soft pink scars and beautiful sparks in tired eyes.

But small, pretty things don’t earn a living. They barely cover rent, never mind food and clothes.

Emil sits on the crowded bus. Someone has graffittied the wall with flowers. A little girl and her mother sit opposite him, the girl crooning about princesses. Emil’s bag, with the majority of his belongings, sits on the seat next to him, his camera and case in his lap, two dollars seventy-five in his pocket for a meal. And that’s all he owns.

“Do you mind?” a gruff voice asks, and two fingers drum on Emil’s bag.

Emil moves the bag, shoving it half-under his chair. The man, tall and broad, sits next to him. His jaw is prominently square with a pink scar deepening his hollow cheek. His eyes and mouth are laced with laugh lines, his clothes are clean but creased.

Curled in his chair, feet on his bag, Emil watches the stranger out of the corner of his eye. The stranger finds something interesting on the ceiling, apple prominent in his throat as he leans his head back, and his gaze doesn’t seem to move around much. Occasionally, his jaw clenches and unclenches and he heaves a deep sigh.

The mother and girl get off the bus somewhere west, where the nice schools and the parks are. The bus empties throughout the west, then takes the third exit on the roundabout nicknamed ‘The Compass’ and heads south.

The Southend is the disliked end of town, the end of town most businesses like to pretend doesn’t exist. The only businesses are clubs and drug dealers. The houses are grey and look like they’re drooping to the floor, broken wooden fences line the pavement side, litter blows in the wind like rustling paper leaves.

“Where’ you headed, kid?” the stranger asks suddenly, making Emil jump. His voice is still gruff, gravely, yet warm and friendly.

“I don’t know,” Emil admits, “I just wanted to get to the Scandia cafe.”

“Scandi caf’? I thought that place shut down.”

Emil bolts upright. The stranger’s eyes are the blue of a crack in black clouds, lashes too blond for his hair to be bleached- “It can’t be shut down!”

“Yeah. Something about the meat. Dodgy source. But it’s the same story for any cheap caf’, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be shut down!” Emil repeats dumbly.

The stranger laughs a sharp, echoey chuckle. “I could be wrong, kid. We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“Would you stop calling me kid? I’m twenty-three!”

“Sorry. You’re just small. Makes you look like a kid. Especially with the cardigan.”

“Shut up! It was the only thing clean this morning!”

The stranger laughs again. The bus turns a sharp corner, throwing the stranger on top of Emil. His grip is firm on Emil’s knee as he rights himself again with an awkward cough.

The brakes of the bus squeal as it stops. They haven’t squealed before. The doors open and the driver doesn’t even look at Emil and the stranger as they step off, Emil’s polite “thank you” left without a response. The doors slam closed behind him and the bus tears away.

“Drivers don’t like staying here long,” the stranger says, falling into step next to Emil, his stride longer and slower and heavier in his boots, “Some urban myth about teenagers attacking the buses. Or immigrants. Or some other scape goat. All bullshit, obviously.”

“Are you following me?” Emil demands.

The stranger shrugs. “I want to know if the Scandi caf’ is still open. And if they are, they did a nice potato soup. I could do with some good potato in me.”

* * *

 

The Scandia café is boarded over, the corkboard graffittied with diamonds and dashes and boxy cars. What the sprayed paint means, Emil has no idea.

“Shame,” the stranger comments, “I was starting to look forwards to that soup.”

Emil’s shoulders slump. Thin moss is growing from between the concrete paving beneath him.

“What are you gonna do now, kid?”

“What do you care?” Emil spits, pout hidden in the neck of his cardigan.

“You’ve got a pretty face on you. Don’t want any of those Terrible Southend Thugs hurting you.”

“I thought you said those urban myths.”

“Predators and criminals aren’t urban myths, kid.”

“Stop calling me kid!” Emil snaps, “I’m _still_ twenty-three!”

“You haven’t given me an alternative.”

“Emil. Emil Steilsson.”

“Lutz Beilschmidt,” the stranger introduces, holding his hand out for Emil to shake. His nails are short, oil residue stuck in the cuticles.

Emil shakes his hand. “To be honest, Lutz, I don’t know what I’m going to do next.”

“You didn’t have much of a plan, did you?”

“I didn’t have much time to make one.”

* * *

 

The flat Lutz lives in is barren and plain. It barely looks lived in. Only the bedroom, with its rumpled bedsheets and two knotted condoms in the bin, looks habited.

Under the harsh light of the streetlamp streaming in, no curtains on the window, the lines of Lutz’s muscles are deep and taught, his hands braced above his head and his mouth hung open, the smallest quirk in corners as Emil lowers himself, longer nails digging into Lutz’s knees. The bed has the slightest creak barely notable under the long moans Lutz makes, movements barely a split second off-beat with Emil’s, forming a second pace nicely, experienced, working Emil’s senses like a long-time lover.

Third condom knotted and binned, Lutz snores lightly in his sleep, the streetlamp casting long shadows in his jaw, hollowing his eyes and dimpling his cheeks and thinning his lips still smirking in afterglow.

Emil always has had an eye for pretty details. Flowers in the cracks of the concrete. The red and white headlights making roads of rubies and diamonds in the night. Soft pink rays of sunset broken behind a skyline. Dimples and crow’s feet and soft pink scars and beautiful people in tired places.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whether the three condoms were all used with Emil or Emil is part of a string of lovers I'll leave up to you.


End file.
